


Beans 🐾

by murderlight



Category: Bleach
Genre: Fighting, Fluff, M/M, Pre-Slash, skin contact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-19
Updated: 2019-03-19
Packaged: 2019-11-24 07:09:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18162743
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murderlight/pseuds/murderlight
Summary: Kurosaki touches his hands a lot, come to think.A quick ficlet about Grimmjow, hands, and why he really should have punched Kurosaki by now.





	Beans 🐾

 

The first time it happens, Grimmjow is in resurrección form and Urahara is ringing the lunch bell from the training room hatch, high in the sky. 

“Hurry up,” Kurosaki groans tiredly, obviously sick of how long it takes for Grimmjow to dust himself off and brush out his hair post-fight. The savage. Some people appreciated cleanliness and decent hygiene, and Grimmjow was actually one of them. “I’m starving. You can just shower when we get inside.” 

The hand that clasps Grimmjow's is warm and slightly sweaty against the soft pads of his still-black palm. Before Grimmjow can properly process that  _the hand is touching his hand, his black-furred clawed hand and Kurosaki is doing it_ **again**  he’s being tugged forward into a slow trot toward the stretching ladder hanging from the artificial sky. A split-second later he finds the press of their skin unacceptable and yanks his hand free, ignoring Kurosaki’s annoyed backward glance. 

“What, too dirty for you?” he snipes, but he’s not really pissed. Kurosaki hardly bothers with that kind of shit. “Man, I hope Tessai made that soy chicken thing again.” He goes off on a ramble about whatever food he’s thinking about eating, like Grimmjow even gives a fuck. 

Grimmjow follows with distraction, staring at his palm suspiciously. He hates being touched, especially his hands and feet. In resurrección it's downright fucking awful. Grabby little dirty hands trying to touch him, right where the skin is soft and easy to cut. He’s killed people for less. Yet Kurosaki keeps grabbing his hands like it's nothing, inside a fight or out of one. And it freaks Grimmjow out every time. 

Not because he hates it, but because he doesn’t. And he should. 

He really, really should. Instead, he follows Kurosaki to the ladder thinking about warms hands that navigate his claws like it’s second nature, and forgets to transform back until Kurosaki nods at the twitching length of his tail in amusement. 

“Urahara is gonna grab that first chance he gets if you don’t switch back.” 

Grimmjow flares his reiatsu in annoyance, feeling twitchy and defensive for reasons he can’t put a finger—or even a claw—on.

It was just Kurosaki being a weird asshole. 

No big deal. 

* * *

 

The next time it happens, Grimmjow isn’t in his released form. He’s staring at the slice through the meat at the base of his thumb, watching dark red blood well up in the cut with high annoyance. It’s going to sting like a bitch to swing his sword, but whatever. 

“Ah, shit,” Kurosaki swears apologetically, planting Zangetsu and walking over. He always thinks he can just pause their battles whenever he wants. Grimmjow should punch him in the stomach to remind him that’s never the case—but then Kurosaki is unfurling his fingers with both hands to have a good look at where his sword nicked open his hand. “I was aiming for your side.” 

Not an apology, and besides, it shouldn’t be. If neither of them bled during a fight Grimmjow would count it a massive fucking waste of time. 

“It’s not gonna fall off,” Grimmjow says gruffly, scowling down at the bright orange crown of Kurosaki’s head. Fingertips are dragging light trails around the wound, almost unbearably careful against his sword-calloused palm. Should he still punch him? He should probably still punch him.  _Why isn’t he punching him_.

“It’s going to need a few stitches or we won’t be able to fight for a while,” Kurosaki says, lifting his head. There’s an unhappy, almost disappointed pinch to the corner of his mouth. He’s angry at himself, Grimmjow realises. The dipshit. “Come on. No-one’s home but I can disinfect and sew this up.” 

Right. Grimmjow is just going to let Kurosaki punch a needle into his hand and out the other side a few times. Good one. He watches the moron tear a strip of his kosode away with his teeth and wrap it around his palm. He presses directly over the cut like an asshole until the fabric stains red, making sure it’s tight enough.

“Are you coming?” Kurosaki asks, and his mouth is still tucked down. There’s a little line between his brows that wasn’t there a minute ago. 

Grimmjow looks at it for a second, feeling the peeled-open sting when he flexes his hand and says, “Whatever.” His shrug is stilted but it transforms Kurosaki’s stupid face in an instant. 

There’s a strange sense of resignation as Grimmjow follows him back to his house. 

When they get to the clinic he lets Kurosaki stitch his hand in silence, annoyed more than anything at his own lack of reaction. The preoccupation with it keeps him docile and quiet as he stares out the glass doors into the afternoon sun, his moody frown propped on his other fist. 

Kurosaki doesn’t say anything as he works, but the needle is careful and his movements show no hesitation. While he works in deft motions, his other hand drums slow patterns on the inside of Grimmjow’s wrist like he doesn’t even know he’s doing it. His head is bent almost nose to skin, scowling with concentration. Maybe the asshole needs glasses. 

Or he wants to do a good job. 

Exhaling in defeat, Grimmjow glances back away, his mouth twitching when Kurosaki ties off the thread and proudly declares himself the new Ishida. 

Whatever that is.   

* * *

 

The third time it happens, Grimmjow is responsible. 

Call it absolute madness, or curiosity, or just being psychologically tricked into this shit through weeks of Kurosaki always wanting to hold his hand, or whatever the fuck keeps him trying to grab hold of one like he does. Who the hell knows? 

Kurosaki is bitching about his shredded uniform, like fighting Grimmjow in resurrección was ever going to turn out differently for him. Ten claws—twenty when he starts flipping and kicking, a prized signature move—coming straight for him and he thought he was going to come out unscathed? Bullshit! But Kurosaki is apparently shocked by this incredible turn of events, and bitches Grimmjow out about it for a minute or two, trying to tie ends of fabric together so he isn’t flashing anyone when they leave the bunker. 

“I look like I’ve been attacked by a herd of wild cats,” Kurosaki complains, turning around to show his back. “Can you still see my ass?” 

“Nah.” Grimmjow absolutely can; a pale curve peeking out of the one tear he couldn’t fix. “Can’t see a thing. You done yet? I’m getting old here.” 

“You don’t get old,” Kurosaki shoots back, patting his ass experimentally. The annoyed look he shoots Grimmjow when he finds the gaping tear is accusing—and hilarious. 

“Come on, dickhead,” Grimmjow snorts, sick of waiting. “Worry about your ass later.” He grabs one patting hand with his own and drags it away, pulling a startled shinigami with it. The hand in his grip is slack and a little too warm. Grimmjow feels his claws test the skin on the back of Kurosaki’s hand and realises exactly what he’s doing in the same instant. 

Too late for punching, Grimmjow thinks, his gut tightening and eyes staring straight ahead. Too late for everything. Gotta own this one, Jaegerjaquez. 

Kurosaki makes a weird little swallowing sound in his throat behind him, like he was about to say something. Then his fingers curl around Grimmjow’s furred ones, like it’s nothing at all. 

Maybe it isn't. 

“You still owe me a new shihakushou,” Kurosaki says a few seconds later, his eyes looking at everything except Grimmjow. Between them, their hands slowly rearrange into something that’s less of a hasty tangle. Kurosaki sneaks his thumb over the healing scar on Grimmjow’s palm, and in a running trend of the truly bizarre, Grimmjow doesn’t hit him for it. 

In fact, he doesn’t really do anything, except squeeze a little tighter. 

“Fuck your uniform,” he says, rolling his eyes. “How am I gonna buy you a new one, huh? Make a withdrawal from the hollow bank? Dumbass.” 

“It’s not my fault you’re poor. Ask for change on a street corner or something.” 

“I’m not the one lookin’ like a beggar here.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

“No, fuck you.”

They bicker and argue all the way to the ladder on the other side of the training bunker, but neither lets go for a second. 

Grimmjow doesn’t mind. He’ll just punch Kurosaki some other time. 

Yeah.

Some other time. 

**Author's Note:**

> there was a lot of talk about toe beans and touching on twitter today


End file.
